


only grief

by orphan_account



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a light-hearted game, Oropher has advice for his son that Thranduil does not want to hear. Centuries later, Thranduil repeats that same advice to his son. Written for alexcat, for the My Slashy Valentine 2015 event!</p>
            </blockquote>





	only grief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/gifts).



“No – lead your troops north. Whatever they would suffer in the cold could not compare to the damage the troops at the southern pass will wreak upon you—“

“You have led me astray before, my friend. Forgive me if I am not quick to take your advice now.”

“I? Never.”

“You will remember the day when you convinced me to guide my people through the eastern marshes, only for us to be swept away by a dark power that had hitherto lain silent beneath the waters. Or when I was coaxed into trading you the last of my supplies, and was left to starve in the wastes—“

“’Twas not I who abandoned you there.”

“No, but never would the thought have entered Lindir’s head had you not whispered it to him a turn before.”

Thranduil smiled sharply. “In Imladris,” said he, “such tactics are forbidden, as you have so often reminded me. In the Greenwood, it is not so.”

“Certainly not when my son participates.” Oropher lifted an eyebrow at Elrond, lowering his voice. “There are rules – and there are _the prince’s_ rules.”

“I win,” said Thranduil, “by any means required to secure victory.”

“He cheats,” his father clarified.

“’Cheat’ is not the word for it, Father—“

Elrond smiled. “And what is done with those who are dishonest in a game of _celu in-eryn_ in Greenwood the Great?”

Oropher glanced up at him from studying his long-fingered hands. “I would not know. _I_ have never been caught.”

Gil-galad rapped a knuckle sharply against the table. “Enough!” Elrond and Thranduil both looked up, breaking off their argument. Oropher took a lazy draught of wine. “I,” said the High King, “am soon to win. And while I enjoy savoring the thought of my victory, I grow weary of waiting for it to come.”

Sharing a secret glance with Thranduil, Elrond flicked the spinner. A silver ball skittered across a ring of letters and colors that blurred together as they spun -- then, with a clatter, settled into a pocket beneath a red tile.

“A scarlet _rómen_.” Elrond closed his mouth for a long moment.

None of the others spoke, though Oropher hid a smile in his wineglass as he swallowed the last of his drink. Elrond had ousted the king from his fortress and laid waste to his troops two turns before. Revenge, it seemed, was swift – but tonight’s wine was sweeter. Oropher stretched, stood, and crossed to the side table, deftly collecting the glass his son held out as he passed, and refilled both his drink and Thranduil’s.

After an uncomfortable minute of sorting, Elrond returned all red and blue cards to their respective decks. He had had an impressive collection – enough to buy the resources and men needed to sweep through Thranduil’s forces at the southern pass and on through the fields where Gil-galad’s men made their stand. Each deck was almost a thumbnail thicker when he was done. Then he drew two cards from a green deck stacked neatly against the game board. “’Plague’,” he read off one darkly, then looked at the other. “’Retreat three leagues’.”

Gil-galad studied the board, then shook his head. “Misfortune is your constant companion, herald. And to think you are in command of living troops.”

When the peredhel did not smile, Thranduil touched his friend’s knee lightly under the table in sympathy. “The same befell me last Ormenel. ‘Tis poor luck. Not a reflection of your skills as herald or a leader.”

Elrond said nothing as he collected a third of his troops and pushed the rest back three markers. Gil-galad took his turn and swept the board clean of enemy pieces, but he was quiet, and put the board and pieces away without any ado.

“He must learn how to lose,” Oropher said to Thranduil later. They stood beneath the stars, one blanket drawn over both their shoulders, warm tea cupped in their hands.

Thranduil found himself arguing before he thought better of it. “Elrond knows what it is to lose. He has lost much already, and will lose more before—“

“No.” Oropher’s silver hair spilled over his shoulders as he shook his head. “The loss of a battle and the loss of those beloved by us are not the same.”

“Father, that was no battle—“

“I did not say I spoke of the game.”

Thranduil gave a sigh that hovered between annoyance and resignation. “—No. You did not.”

Oropher tipped his head. “You think my judgment unfair.”

“No, Father.” The prince did not move.

“You think I disapprove of the one you have chosen.”

“No, Father.”

“I do.”

Thranduil bit his lip.

“Or – I disapprove that you have chosen someone. These days of war are no time to make pronouncements of love and loyalty. No sooner have you pledged yourselves, you shall find yourself separated. I know this. But you – you are still young.” Frowning, the king turned to face his son. “You must trust in me; I know what is best for you.” Carefully, he took the blanket from around his own shoulders and fastened it about Thranduil with a touch that was both light and firm. “Love will bring you naught but grief. Once someone has stolen into your heart, you have lost a piece of yourself. Kings must be whole.”

“ _You_ are king, Father.”

“Yes. At the moment, I am king.” He brushed Thranduil’s cheek with his thumb, as though wiping away a tear that had not yet been shed. His expression softened. “Any moment,” he added more softly, “that could well change. This war— So many of us have fallen. Seven years of siege have we now laid upon the Dark Tower, and yet all we have achieved is the deaths of our own.”

“We are soon to win.”

“Ah, the hope of the young.” There was no smile in the king’s voice. He withdrew his hand. “I would send you from here if you were not needed. Perhaps even then. The Greenwood is safer by far than a battlefield, and – I also do not like to lose.” Drawing a breath, he collected himself. “I should go. There are – duties to which I must attend.” Formally, Oropher touched his heart and raised his hand, then turned upon his heel and walked east, away from his tent.

Thranduil watched him until he disappeared into the ridge of trees beyond the camp. Then, in the silence, he returned the gesture: he touched his heart, then opened his palm towards the place where Oropher had lingered for just a moment, as though deciding whether to turn, before vanishing beneath the trees.

 

 

 

 

“You are still young. Trust in me; I know what is best.”

“I am _tired_ ,” said Legolas, “of having my every action criticized and corrected. What harm is there in my love for him?”

“Love will bring you naught but grief. I fear for your heart, for no sooner have you pledged your love than he shall be old and weary, and then gone.”

Elrond closed his eyes and let the argument wash through him. If he had not known better, he would have sworn to it that it was Oropher who sat there – though Thranduil had taken his father’s advice with more grace than the young prince now had in him. Years of questing with the Fellowship had left Legolas almost rough, unpolished, with Dwarvish words on his lips and a Gondorian lilt to his Sindarin.

Behind the thick wall of roses, the father and son continued, Thranduil’s voice low and firm, Legolas’ dancing between an angry whisper and a cry of frustration.

Elrond began counting his breaths – One, two—

Legolas had slipped angrily into the heavy dialect of the Silvans, while Thranduil’s Sindarin was cool, precise, exact.

– Twelve, thirteen—

The lord of Imladris fought to keep his hands still in his lap. He felt guilty, now, having chosen to stay even after having heard the nature of the argument. Long ago, when he was younger and more foolish, he had eavesdropped on a similar conversation between father in son – but he knew better now.

It came to him suddenly that the noise had stopped. Relieved, he stood, lifting his robes so they would not whisper against the stone as he crept away.

“—Elrond.”

Biting his lip, the peredhel froze.

He heard the rustle of long skirts and the soft clink of bracelets as Thranduil stood, and heard each sound grow in volume until he could almost feel warm breath upon his shoulders. Then, with a heavy sigh, Thranduil took Elrond’s hand. Only then did the peredhel turn to look at the king.

Thranduil was – worn. His eyes were dull, and the corners of his mouth had fallen. “Perhaps I should be angry with you,” he said softly, “for listening, but I find I do not have it in me. Later, I am certain I will be furious.”

Elrond almost laughed, but swallowed it before it could escape. “Come. As the master of healers, I prescribe tea and sweet honey-cakes for a father’s aching heart.” He did not say any more until they were seated in the kitchens, and he had seen to it that Thranduil had eaten. Then, carefully, he inquired, “Why repeat your father so?”

“Then you have eavesdropped twice on me.”

“—I did not eavesdrop the first time. You told me what he—“

“I did not.” Something like a wry smile touched Thranduil’s lips. “I suppose it is proof that you care.”

“Was that ever in question?”

“No.” The king looked at his plate, as though suddenly repulsed by it. He pushed it away; Elrond pushed it back; Thranduil pushed it away again. “I am not hungry.”

“You have not been hungry for three years, not since your son left. Now, he has returned.” Elrond stood, then moved to sit beside Thranduil on the bench. Almost immediately, the king leaned against him, then reluctantly took back the plate. “I said it to him because it is true.” Thranduil looked intent on collecting each of the crumbs on the plate, one by one. “Love brings only grief.”

“That is not so. Surely I have not—“

“Love brings only grief. There are days when the heart is light and all is well, yet in the end, pain will overshadow all.”

Elrond slipped his arm around Thranduil’s waist, and the king moved closer almost without realizing it. “Do you not wish for your son to love, then?”

“That is my fondest wish.”

Studying the lines in Thranduil’s face, Elrond considered all that he might say for a moment, then said nothing at all.

“But he must know the pain it will bring him. And he must choose it all the same. Love is not some— It is not a game to be played. He must know that, as I do.”

Elrond pressed a kiss to Thranduil’s shoulder lightly, then leaned his head against him. He let the crackling of the fire and the rustle of leaves outside fill the silence. “Have I brought you only grief?” he asked at last, seemingly too quiet to be heard.

“Yes.” Thranduil shifted, and pressed his lips softly the top of the peredhel’s head. “As Legolas has, as my wife did in her time, as my father did, as well. But I choose you all the same. Each day and each hour, I choose you.”

**Author's Note:**

> alexcat -- I'm hoping you like this, love. It went in a direction I wasn't quite expecting, but with luck, you'll enjoy it all the same. <3


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